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Latest Posts by elenwewy - Page 8
Lalwen is one of these mysterious Silm ladies I have an inexplicable fondness for and I'm sad we don't know more about her.
But I do like the fanon that she was the "cool aunt" to her more than a dozen nephews and nieces.
Generally cheerful and quick to laugh, she was always ready to goof around with the kids and would frequently sneak them candy and other treats. (And later, they all came to her when they wanted to discuss their problems and worries with an adult who was not a parent.)
Anyway, here she is with Fingon after she brought him back some cakes from a boring banquet she escaped from.
Not that she plays favourites, Lalwen loves all her nephews and nieces equally, but Fingon, being the firstborn son of her closest sibling might have a special place in her heart. (And I've already drawn Turgon and Finrod, as well as Maedhros and Maglor a little while ago, so Fingon seemed like the obvious choice when I needed an elfling for this one.)
For day 2 of @finweanladiesweek - Lalwen
Pityo after brother's death (with Telvo's horse)
Do not use without my permission, please
![[wip] đ€](https://64.media.tumblr.com/75d41ebd9fc686b295f0629a9b5c1296/19e49c9ea8b78647-6b/s500x750/0800e2d27c5f1b073e84a45171cff7a421ec9a9d.png)
I'm fresh out of half-elven inspiration today, so have some Russingon, for a change. And some Lalwen, because there should always be more Lalwen. Also on AO3 (T: 352 words).
********
It is Lalwen who marries them.
Lalwen, whose own heartâs joy had laughed at Mandos, and now melts into the bones of the earth in blistered Dorthonion, returning, as she had ever sought, to the imagination, to the shining, breathing glory of the trees. Sinking down, that the roots may be nourished and the shattered forests rise again.
âLook not for me in the West,â she had said, as the binding caught their hearts, as Lalwenâs breath tracked hers to its source and their bodies wove together, following their minds. âThis is all there is. Love, now, and the silence, after, unless it be a song of remembrance, caught in the branches, or the breeze.â
Lalwen had only kissed her again and clung, until the knife came down, and the great woods burned.
She watches Maedhrosâ face as they weave their plans for the final battle, remembering FĂ«anorâs passion, and his bright boysâ following rage. Let the Void take us! And if it does? If there is only silence, and not even a song, where the Darkness reigns?
She is cold. Colder than she ever was in the great crossing; more certain even than then of the long fall, the bleak end. Fingonâs fine eyes catch the light as they did on the Ice, under the stars, only now they are burning.
This is all they will have. Love, now, and the silence, after.
She draws them into the robing room, after the council meeting. Pulls the gold bands from the bases of her braids to use as rings. Wraps their wrists with her sash, lays skin against skin as they stammer and shiver under her fierce, forgiving gaze.
Maedhros tries to demur, to conjure spectres and channel voices of disapproval, but he is already leaning into Fingon; their smiles matching as they ever have; their fingers twining as though carved to fit, knuckle to knuckle, tendon to tendon, bone to bone.
Lalwen blesses them. Kisses them. Sends them to bed, to their true binding.
She sits in the dark, then, for a while, listening to the silence.
To the song. Â
The Kings of the Noldor do not cut their hair so long as they reign. But before taking the throne, each king-to-be cuts his hair in mourning for his predecessor.
Elven hair grows very, very slowly.
Finwë dies surrounded by an ocean of raven-dark hair, spilling around him as blood. Gil-galad's ankle-length hair smolders as fine silver ribbons tossed into fire.
Fingolfin, riding to Morgoth's gate with fire in his eyes, tucks his dark waist-length braid into helm.
Turgon's dark braids fail just over his shoulders as he takes up his great-sword for the last time. Fingon's curls, too short to braid, spill out of his helm fall in his eyes, sticking his bloodied cheeks.
FĂ«anor had cut his hair unusually short in mourning of his beloved father; had hewed messily at the braids until his scalp was visible through the uneven tufts of hair. It looks much the same when he dies, the bald spots barely covered.
Morgoth cannot cut Maedhros's hair when he captures him, for Maedhros has already done the job himself.
Sauron engaging in a bit of⊠'historical reenactment' for @silvergiftingweek Day 4 (Betrayal / Captured / Bad Ending).
He didn't have a convenient rock cliff nearby, but in a pinch you can also chain your elf to an ordinary wall and leave them there until they're more inclined to listen to you.
(I'm so sorry, Tyelpë.)
"Aredhel the White was younger in the years of the Eldar than her brothers; and when she was grown to full stature and beauty she was tall and strong, and loved to ride and hunt in the forests. There she was often in the company of the sons of Feanor, her kin; but to none was her heart's love given. Ar-Feiniel she was called, the White Lady of the Noldor, for she was pale, though her hair was dark, and she was never arrayed but in silver and white."
âThe Silmarillion, Of Eldamar and the Princes of the Eldalie
I actually made two palette versions and canât decide which I like better: above is âsunsetâ (more dramatic), and below is âtwilightâ (softer).
After doing a few quite illustrative, stylised paintings recently I think I may move back towards doing some realism for a bit
Iâve never really enjoyed sticking with one style of painting for too long - itâs more fun to switch around between stylised, realism and painterly imho :)
And then, the news of aredhel's death arrived inside a letter to Nargothrond.
Celegorm did not know what to do.
âThe Old Forestâ
The seventh of eleven new watercolours depicting places in Middle-earth (and NĂșmenor) for an upcoming book.
